I’m four floors up in this building. Four floors. That’s three up from the first floor. From here, you can see how far away the ground is. The people look so tiny. Where I stand exceeds the height of the building across the way. Spring semester has begun.

I was sweating, shaking, couldn’t walk out of the elevator to the fourth floor for my first class. I shook my way to class, hugging the walls and steering as far as possible from any windows, stairs, or ledges. If I didn’t hug the walls… how else would I confirm they were really there? I felt mortified by how I felt and probably looked. If you saw me, you would’ve thought that I was in some horror movie, being hunted down by a killer. When I arrived at my first class, I had to continuously tell myself, “it’s the first floor, Cheryl,” “you can do this… you’ve always done this.” The terror was all over my face, though. If I moved even the slightest bit, I’d feel off balanced. I didn’t know if I could make it through the whole class even, no less the rest of the semester…

As days went by, I had realized that as long as I held onto a friend tightly, I could at least remotely make it to and out of class a little calmer. Holding onto someone was a confirmation of the palpable reality in which we live, during a time that my brain told me otherwise. However, how many people and how often can you keep asking to go out of their way to… walk you to class?... A good friend from work, though, did the honors and began walking me to class. She would even come get me when class ended to walk me back down to the first floor. A few classes in, though, I started talking to a girl in my class that I had known from a previous semester class. Her name is Zuleika Soler. We weren’t friends and that was probably partially because she was so pretty and perfect looking that it was intimidating to even talk to her. I bit my tongue and spoke to her anyways, finally. We caught up a little and I immediately mentioned the fear of heights I had recently developed that she could recall from the previous semester. I explained to her how it persisted and only worsened and that I was petrified because of it. In shame and with concern, I reluctantly asked her if she could walk with me to and from class from that point on. At least until the phobia and anxiety simmered some. She instantaneously agreed with so much compassion. We left class together, exchanged numbers and parted ways for our next classes.

Luckily, rather than to cry on, she became my shoulder to hold for around two months.

Slowly but surely, I was able to walk to class with a little more ease. I no longer needed to hold onto her so tightly in mental agony, shaking, sweating. I was able to walk by her side, not even remembering anymore what floor we were on. The way it should be. Occasionally, when stressed, the phobia picked up a bit. Those were the days when I would text Zuleika to let her know that I wouldn’t be able to make it to class and not to wait up for me; it was a bad anxiety day. Those were also the days when Zuleika became my motivator. She’d respond with encouragement, motivation, and comfort. She’d insist that I would be fine and that I could hold onto her during class or whatever else it took for me to make it to class. Because of her involvement in my circumstance, I never missed a day of class… until my disorder took a turn for the worst, that is.

Despite my consistent attendance in all classes, my derealization was worsening by week. I started to see that yes, I was able to make it to classes. I took so much pride in such accomplishment and perseverance. I even loved every class I chose for once, looked forward to each one. However, I noticed my uncontrollable lack of focus and comprehension in most classes. Every class had partially just become a countdown of minutes. For some reason, I also had this lingering anxiety that I wouldn’t make it through the whole semester or even the next day of any class. It consumed my mind. I couldn’t help but think the projects and exams that were announced in class, didn’t apply to me because I wouldn’t be there anymore. I was no longer able to even work at my school job (on the second floor) because my disorder was soaring again with the fact that I wasn’t able to concentrate on anything. What the h*** is happening to me? Is my brain turning off? It was one thing to sit still through a whole class, but having to walk around at work, help students who come in, not hold onto anyone, etc. ate me alive.

As a result, I would no longer go to work. Driving was becoming difficult; I felt like I was playing some racing game in an arcade. If I turn around, will I see other games in the arcade? Or will I see the backseat of my car and the road/other cars behind me? Why is that even a serious question in my mind?

My only busy times for two months were three days a week, otherwise, I would sit in my house, watching TV, waiting for classes to start. My lack of productivity hurt more than anything. Given my mental condition, I really couldn’t do anything else. I spent weekdays alone; my family was at work. Like I should be... at work. Like I should be. I SHOULD be at work. I SHOULD be at school studying, socializing, doing homework like I always have. What happened to me that I’m no longer able to do so? Who am I becoming? Why do I feel farther from reality by day? The questions and anxiety spiraled in my head daily. I needed to TRY to fill in my time with SOMETHING. I began looking into babysitting jobs until I realized… what is going to happen when I have to be on the second floor of a home to put kids to bed or for any other reason? Well, there goes that idea. I’m not even going to put myself through that pain of finding a well-paying babysitting job with kids I bond with. Next option: maybe I could work at a restaurant? Yes. Definitely. I practically live off a highway with endless restaurants. On the ground. Yay?? Yay!!

And so I applied, got interviewed, and was scheduled to have orientation. However, there was still some lingering feeling in me that I wouldn’t be able to fulfill my responsibilities there, either. I won’t make it. Was that just my anxiety talking or was it true?

A few days later, after a rough day of classes, I came home. I was so upset by how I felt. I was sure the derealization would have faded away by now, but it hadn’t. I was terrified beyond belief. My entire life was becoming completely warped, worse than ever. Nothing was making sense in my head anymore. I’ve lost it. I ran to my mom the moment I got home from classes. She was my security blanket. As always, she listened to my incomprehensible thoughts, let me cry, calmed me down and reminded me of our favorite phrase, “this, too, shall pass.” I had long awaited lying next to her in her bed, snuggling up to her, and finally just breaking down, coming undone, alas. Meanwhile, ahead of me, part of my mom’s room appeared two-dimensional. Just seeing that made me cry even harder. How much longer can I be strong, push through this until I need to get help? I can’t keep going on in this insurmountable pain. I can’t do this alone. I could never bring myself to understand why people would ever want or be able to… commit… until now. I didn’t want to live if this was my new reality. That was far too painful and unrealistic. My mom and I had spoken about hospitalization, however, did not know where I’d go. The ER? No, that’s so expensive. Just for me to be idle, go crazier, and then be taken somewhere else. Where do you even go when you have no idea what's wrong with you? I realized my dad knew very little of the extremity of my sickness. Why hadn’t I told him earlier? Oh, that’s right… I tried brushing off the pain. The more people I told, the realer it felt. The less that knew, the less serious it felt. I could just go on about my life. I was seeing a guy that was keeping my sanity intact some, as well. So I should be okay eventually, right? Not anymore, though, especially with how severe things were getting.

I had gone through several struggles without my dad involved throughout the years we hadn’t spoken. I can get through this, too, without it blowing up into more, no? No… Unfortunately this time was different. I felt like I was living in some mental purgatory. I needed my dad now more than ever. I needed all the support I could get. My mom was watching me fall apart. One parent can’t handle all the weight of a mentally ill child; that needs to be shared. It was almost between life and death.

Crying every night had become my routine that we were all getting use to. It wasn’t okay. It was no longer an issue I could suppress from my father, or any family member really for that matter. I still tried resisting and brushing off the pain for a little longer, though.

My dad had heard snippets from me about my suffering, but like anyone else who didn’t see me frequently, he hadn’t known the extent. He just knew I was petrified of being above ground and that I was progressively struggling more with school, but didn’t know why precisely. Nobody really knew why.

“I want to understand you and what you’re going through. It’s all very confusing over the phone. Please let’s go out for lunch in a bit and talk about it,” my dad said with a voice of heartbreak, concern, and desperation.

Holding back tears, I replied, “I want to tell you, too. I’ll see you soon.”

I was petrified to tell my father. He had never seen me crumble, or really be anything but bubbly and content. We weren’t very close; how would he take this? Would my dad be horrified of my mental state and be angry with my mother because he felt she wasn’t doing enough about it? Would he break seeing me so broken? Those thoughts, questions running through my head put me in another extremely anxious frenzy.

My dad picked me up and we drove to a cute downtown area nearby and sat in front of a church for about an hour and talked. It felt so good to see him. A change of pace. Mothers’ first instincts are to worry, worry, worry. It makes it so hard to crumble in front of your own mother. As much as she kept herself very composed in front of me, I knew it was breaking her heart. It would break any parent’s heart. Especially when derealization is such an incomprehensible thing; she had no understanding of what I was dealing with. So with the limited help she could provide me, all she could really do was console me as best as she could, let me cry and watch me suffer.

When I explained the situation in depth to my dad, he reacted far more calmly than I had anticipated, taking a load off of me. “You are not going to die, Cheryl. We are going to get you help. You have family that loves you and will do whatever it takes to get you better. Everything will be okay, I promise. I know it’s so scary right now. We’ll get you help,” my dad insisted. His calming words and a deep talk we shared had made me far more comfortable than I initially was. He saw me calm down, open up to him.

We both grew very hungry so finally picked ourselves up and walked to his favorite nearby restaurant. As we got up and began our walk over, I suddenly saw everything in two-dimensional ahead of me and clung onto my dad for dear life practically. I felt like I couldn’t walk any further. Once that little brain trip ended, I, then, felt this weird sensation in me that just wanted to zap out of existence, become nothing. Kind of like what you see in movies when someone just disappears. It was one of the most painful, weird sensations I ever felt. I wanted to scream, cry, get out of my own body. I tried so hard to conceal my pain to my dad. He heard me talk about it, but he had yet to see me actually episodic. That was phase two of him seeing how real my suffering was. Concealing pain was at this moment, though, out of the question.

Once we arrived at the restaurant and got seated, tears slowly but surely made their way down my face. I don't think my dad had ever even see me cry before. That's how he knew it was serious. We were in public so I was doing everything in my power to try and keep it together and not make a scene.

The waiter came to take our order; I composed myself to the best of my ability. "My daughter is actually an Olympian and needs to warm up for her next event, so if you don't mind bringing out our food as soon as possible, that would be excellent," my dad told the waiter, humoring me. My dad looked at me in cue to go with it, half-jokingly, of course. Trying to lighten the mood in my mind but struggling, I flexed my arm to the skeptical waiter and nodded. I was suppressing a giggle but my dad still saw through it and how I truly felt didn't slip by him. The waiter walked away and my dad and I continued our conversation from the church steps.

My dad saw the unexplainable pain I was enduring and how confused I was, through my tears and body language.

“Dad… I think I need to hospitalized. I’m so scared,” I painfully confessed to my dad in a shy voice.

“Okay, sweetie, do you want me to get you in tomorrow morning?” my dad asked with comforting confidence.

“No.. I want to go now,” I said as I shook, with a shy, petrified, yet firm voice.